To link to the entire object, paste this link in email, IM or documentTo embed the entire object, paste this HTML in websiteTo link to this page, paste this link in email, IM or documentTo embed this page, paste this HTML in website

Miss Delman rose from her chair and led the way to the door.
“Remember, Edward, you are my ally. Call tomorrow afternoon early enough to take Ruth to the races—and be sure to keep her out of town over night . . . Now, hurry, before she has a chance to see you near the house.”
An hour later, just as the clock was striking ten, Ruth Delman entered the fine old mansion she called home. The lower floor was deserted, except by the butler. Ruth hurried upstairs. The light in the bedrom of her aunt was still burning, the unfailing signal that the old lady had not yet retired. Ruth knocked gently at the door, and, on invitation, entered to find her aunt kneeling before the little altar in her room, apparently absorbed in her devotions.
“Pardon me, auntie; I just wanted to bid you goodnight,” quietly said Ruth, as she tiptoed towards the old lady.
Miss Delman raised a tear stained face to the girl.
“Why, auntie!” exclaimed Ruth. “You’ve been crying! What has happened?”
The old lady wiped away her tears, drew down the girl’s head, kissed her, and bade her retire.
Ruth hesitated. “Do tell me what is wrong, auntie,” she pleaded.
“No, darling, not now. I must first pray to learn whether it is prudent to tell you. Go to bed; there is plenty of time tomorrow to tell you, if telling is the prudent course. It would only keep you awake to tell you what I have heard . . . Go, Ruth, and let me finish my prayers.”
In her own room, next to her aunt’s, the girl was lost in a maze of perplexing thoughts. What could have happened to upset her usually imperturbable aunt? Wearily Ruth took off her hat, and thought; she drew off her gloves, and thought; she slipped off her coat, and thought. Her disrobing and preparation for retiring were accomplished slowly and wearily, in perfect harmony with her heavy thoughts. She stood before the mirror as she braided her hair for the night, and asked her reflection what her aunt had heard. No answer came. Wearily she dragged herself to the side qf her bed and knelt to say her prayers. She began: “Our Father, ■ who art in heaven.” She left Him there, and came back to earth to ponder the cause of her aunt’s disquietude. Ruth could not pray; she could only wonder.
Unable to endure the strain, Ruth went noiselessly to the door that led into her aunt’s room from her own, and peeped through the key-hole. Aunt Lucia was still praying—praying aloud and sobbing. Ruth listened. Now and then she could distinguish the words of her aunt’s lament: “Why did you ? Why did you allow it to happen ?” Sobs followed; again Ruth could distinguish the words: “My beautiful flower! My stainless lily! No, it must not be! It must not be!” Again there was a crying spell, followed by the lamentation: “My poor child! my darling Ruth! Oh, it must not be! It must not be . . . Do thou guide my tongue!”
Ruth could stand it no longer. She rushed out of her room,

Miss Delman rose from her chair and led the way to the door.
“Remember, Edward, you are my ally. Call tomorrow afternoon early enough to take Ruth to the races—and be sure to keep her out of town over night . . . Now, hurry, before she has a chance to see you near the house.”
An hour later, just as the clock was striking ten, Ruth Delman entered the fine old mansion she called home. The lower floor was deserted, except by the butler. Ruth hurried upstairs. The light in the bedrom of her aunt was still burning, the unfailing signal that the old lady had not yet retired. Ruth knocked gently at the door, and, on invitation, entered to find her aunt kneeling before the little altar in her room, apparently absorbed in her devotions.
“Pardon me, auntie; I just wanted to bid you goodnight,” quietly said Ruth, as she tiptoed towards the old lady.
Miss Delman raised a tear stained face to the girl.
“Why, auntie!” exclaimed Ruth. “You’ve been crying! What has happened?”
The old lady wiped away her tears, drew down the girl’s head, kissed her, and bade her retire.
Ruth hesitated. “Do tell me what is wrong, auntie,” she pleaded.
“No, darling, not now. I must first pray to learn whether it is prudent to tell you. Go to bed; there is plenty of time tomorrow to tell you, if telling is the prudent course. It would only keep you awake to tell you what I have heard . . . Go, Ruth, and let me finish my prayers.”
In her own room, next to her aunt’s, the girl was lost in a maze of perplexing thoughts. What could have happened to upset her usually imperturbable aunt? Wearily Ruth took off her hat, and thought; she drew off her gloves, and thought; she slipped off her coat, and thought. Her disrobing and preparation for retiring were accomplished slowly and wearily, in perfect harmony with her heavy thoughts. She stood before the mirror as she braided her hair for the night, and asked her reflection what her aunt had heard. No answer came. Wearily she dragged herself to the side qf her bed and knelt to say her prayers. She began: “Our Father, ■ who art in heaven.” She left Him there, and came back to earth to ponder the cause of her aunt’s disquietude. Ruth could not pray; she could only wonder.
Unable to endure the strain, Ruth went noiselessly to the door that led into her aunt’s room from her own, and peeped through the key-hole. Aunt Lucia was still praying—praying aloud and sobbing. Ruth listened. Now and then she could distinguish the words of her aunt’s lament: “Why did you ? Why did you allow it to happen ?” Sobs followed; again Ruth could distinguish the words: “My beautiful flower! My stainless lily! No, it must not be! It must not be!” Again there was a crying spell, followed by the lamentation: “My poor child! my darling Ruth! Oh, it must not be! It must not be . . . Do thou guide my tongue!”
Ruth could stand it no longer. She rushed out of her room,